


know your enemy

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Political RPF
Genre: Absolute Insanity, Affairs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daddy Issues, Discipline, Drama, Drug Addiction, Infidelity, Intrigues, Multi, Political Campaigns, Political Drama, Prescription Drugs, Spanking, The Author Regrets Everything, if i'm being honest, scandals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an election / a scandal / a family / an addiction / an affair, or two</p><p>character study using and extrapolating on current events. everyone is tortured and awful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this um... happened? sorry.
> 
> au where like... we're one election cycle ahead, so like obama has been out of office for one term and washington got elected after him and is up for reelection but still fighting for the party nomination. if you will.
> 
> warnings: drug use, yellow journalism, original character, donald trump's big ugly face
> 
> rating is for drug abuse and will likely go up as i write more of this. i'll also update the tags as i go.
> 
> this is really crazy. this is alexander hamilton hatefic as much as it's donald trump hatefic. there's a lot of internal battling, because i write in pov. as you all know.

Alexander’s head’s been buzzing for four hours.

There’s also the headache, going on 24 straight hours. A lack of lunch hadn’t helped his productivity, just made him jumpy, and during any other week he’d have predicted that but for the past few days he hasn’t been able to think of anything but this fucking meeting. Three days of fingers hovering uselessly over his keyboard, documents with reports he absolutely should be finishing and now it’s Friday evening and he’s accomplished basically nothing. The sun is setting on the Hill and it glares through the window opposite, settling obnoxiously over Alex’s desk. It’s dead summer out, about six meaning still with the swampy mug that comes into DC each June like a plague. He doesn’t even want to think about traffic. He’d sooner find a housekeeping closet to camp in tonight.

Alex knows he should be in the meeting Washington’s in right now. He’d told him he’d have to sit it out earlier in the afternoon, _headache, ya know,_ and Washington had frowned, disappointed but sympathetic, and told him to go home early, get some rest. Alex had said he would and had even meant it, but then he realized that home was just as pill-less as work so instead he’s been stuck here fiddling with Minesweeper while he waits for his most trusted snot-nosed page to get here with his supply.

He flips through a few tabs he has open on his laptop - Twitter, an in-depth profile on Clinton he should read, his aggregate Gmail inbox, flooded mostly with housekeeping. Being Chief of Staff is actually pretty boring. Lots of paperwork, lots of wrangling other staffers. COS is arguably a partisan position but it sometimes feels wholly administrative and he feels less effective than he had flexing his considerable expertise in the Treasury. He knows Washington wants him close and that his choice to appoint him into his current position was a strategic one - with an election looming, it’s safer. There are less opportunities for Alex to act out.

He scans his inbox, mostly indifferent, but then - ooh, that’s interesting. Email from Madison, who never emails him anymore. He clicks on the subject and - _certainly_ interesting. It’s a forwarded, concise block of text from a journalist whose name he recognizes from the cover of the Post. Say what you will, the Post may be trash, but Alex has been in government for long enough to know that most of the time their inklings are pretty astute. It’s the paper who cried wolf, the one nobody takes seriously - besides campaign staffers with a lot to lose. They also tend to be the first outlet said aides run to when they’ve lost it, their historically rocky track record when it comes to discretion notwithstanding. Because after you’ve lost an election nobody cares about but should, after the bill you’ve been losing sleep and sex and hair over fails and your entire world shifts (Alex has been there), you’re pretty unstable and your jaw goes slack and your first instinct is to let every rumor you heard about your opponents in the halls of Congress fall out just to relieve some of the frustration. The New York Post is a team of experts in picking the juiciest pieces from the ensuing word vomit and running with them, weaving the disjointed threads into something truly nasty and running a crudely condensed version in bold red letters.

He reads the email. He rereads the email. The paragraph’s too short; by the time he gets to the hyperlink at the end of it his mind still hasn’t really digested the beginning. This is explosive, this is game-changing, this is -

He jolts when the door to his office is thrown open and Eric, the pale-faced Harvard-dorm insider he relies on, bustles into the room, red-cheeked. Alex narrows his eyes at him. “What took you so long?” he asks, and then: “Why you been running, man?”

Eric shakes his head as if to clear it. He pulls a brown paper lunchbag out of his messenger bag and drops it on Alex’s desk. It rattles. Eric rests his hands on the desk, leaning to catch his breath. “Something to tell you,” he says finally, after Alex makes a _Go on_ sort of gesture to encourage him. “Something big.”

“What the fuck, Eric, I am not in the mood to do this today. Get on with it.” Alexander drives the heel of his hand into his temple, grimaces. He has been in withdrawal all damn day. He can’t stop thinking about the fact that they’re right there, finally within his reach, and after this extremely lengthy conversation he’s going to swallow like four of them.

“Sir, I.” Eric runs his hand through his sandy hair. Then he’s talking fast fast fast. “I ran into that reporter Maria Reynolds at Starbucks and she told me some shit, some shit that Trump’s been getting up to -” And it’s good, and he’s pretty proud of Eric - maybe he’ll look into getting him a raise - but Alex puts a hand up to shush him, turns the laptop so Eric can see the screen.

“Like this kind of shit?” he asks, and Eric’s eyes go wide as he reads. He nods. “Yeah,” he breathes. “That kind.” He swallows. “But how did James Madison get -”

Alex huffs a laugh. “James Madison makes it his business to know everything about everyone on the Hill. The only difference between him and Aaron Burr is that where Madison knows not to show his hand, when it really matters, Burr runs to the press.” His head is pounding. This is a lot to process right now. He needs a fix. He unrolls the paper sack and lets the two bottles of Adderall roll onto the desktop, sweeps them into his open drawer. “Thanks, by the way,” he says to Eric, and then waves his hand at him, ushering him out. When he leaves, Hamilton opens his drawer, opens a bottle, pours a couple pills into his hand. He swallows them dry, along with some Tylenol. Almost immediately his blood runs a little cooler and his shoulders relax. He props himself up at his desk, opens a new document and a Google tab and digs Maria Reynolds’ email out of the far reaches of his contacts. Settles in for the evening. Gets to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder that maria reynolds is powerful and i love her

Maria is used to sleeping with politicians, local and aspiring national. They’re awful, usually. White House staffers, holders of bipartisan offices - those are more hungry, more to prove. They aspire to more. She supposes by the time they’re validated by enough votes, they grow complacent, worn down by years of unhappy marriage and general exhaustion.

Jefferson - he’s a category all his own. For one thing, they’re doing this not purely for information from each other. They meet up once a month; he wines and dines her in his favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian place, they exchange stories and jokes unrelated to their respective jobs, he fucks her good and slow, and _then_ they talk shop. She supposes they’re - dating. The aroma of the wine his money lets her taste is impressive. The scent on his skin clean with hotel soap is better.

James, God bless, he doesn’t care. He’s an idiot, a brute, and she has no idea why she married him, not when she has more satisfying orgasms with white-haired Republicans. But he is a companion who positions her strategically, and he’d gotten her an in with the editor of the Post after she’d languished at a DC regional for two years. She’s at the forefront of modern reporting, the shrillest voice in every press conference crowd, and if her methods are less than fully tactful - well. Maria has never been one for tradition. And she’s the one consistently getting the big scoops. Her competition must _hate_ her.

She sees herself in Jefferson, her own passion. She is used to being written off as an ingenue by powerful men. Jefferson respects her, sees and matches her wit. Challenges her. She hadn’t even had to prove herself to him - usually men made her earn her place at the table. Intolerant as he is, Thomas Jefferson is vulnerable in the shade of her copper curls and sharp nose, backseam pantyhose into black patent Jimmy Choos. It’s sex appeal she wields wisely, but the way Jefferson looks at her doesn’t make it feel like a chore. His hands go to her hips and he always asks her permission to undo the zipper on her skirt. He’s kind, actually; his reputation as a weird hermit with a lot of venom to sling in the press isn’t exactly misplaced, but she sees the private Jefferson, a smart, deeply thoughtful man. He chooses his every word carefully and still manages to say so much, never seems to run out of ruminations on her beauty and hers alone. They are both married but to marry a politician - or a reporter - you write a certain amount of infidelity into your vows.

Of course, she starts to notice Hamilton, as well. He is the antithesis to Jefferson - short, wiry, stands with his hip cocked in arrogance and his tie askew. But the hunger in his eyes, the same as hers and Jefferson’s - that’s something she sees rarely enough to associate, and it excites her. Rather than candlelit restaurants, he meets her at coffee shops - and he doesn’t have a preference, just inhales caffeine indiscriminately. She sips a skim latte and picks at a surprisingly flaky pain au chocolat while he shows her the latest.

“He’s fucking, like, everybody,” he says, breathless - he’d biked here from the Eisenhower building and swooped down on the table he’d found her at like a ravenous hawk.

“‘Cept me,” she says casually, and he stops short. Regards her like he’s just noticing. She sinks into it, leans against the table and licks sticky croissant off her fingers. He kind of shakes himself, and when he continues, it’s slower, more deliberate. _I could teach him to choose his words more carefully,_ she thinks. _I could teach him a lot._

“It’s not even surprising, since he’s a violent misogynist, but look at this - this is basically his little black book. He was in bed with politicians before he was a politician himself, back during his budding business ventures up in New York - this is _decades_ of corruption, actual corruption, catalogued - I assume just for posterity? I have no idea who did this or how they got their hands on it but whoever did it is has been doing it for years.”

Maria hums, squints at his Macbook screen. She still hasn’t gotten a chance to give the website more than a cursory glance - she’d shot it off in an email to Jefferson and Madison and gone back to the more pressing story she had been writing when she’d uncovered it. And he’s right. The blog is meticulously organized and on the right-hand side there’s an archive; the calendar of posts goes back to 2008. The default Blogger theme is white and orange and some of the images are broken, displaying hosting advertisements, but the pertinent stuff - it’s all there, photographed and then painstakingly captioned with the exact text pictured. It’s pretty thrilling. There are names she knows, and all the ones she doesn’t, Alexander is happy to shed light on, filling in the blanks. She’s a few years younger than him and still relatively new to the world of politics, but she sees some names that ring a bell, businessmen’s wives and fellow journalists, even. Some legends. She shakes her head in dismay when the name of a mentor flashes in her peripheral vision as Alexander scrolls the page. Even her morals being what they are, she would never stoop so low.

“I can’t believe he’s getting such tail,” Alexander says in elated disbelief, and it’s crude and she glares at him. She may appreciate a roll in the hay, but she doesn’t appreciate vaguely sexist power plays, and she loses a tiny modicum of respect for him. He blushes under her scrutiny, looks knocked down a peg. Good. He turns his gaze back to the screen, keeps scrolling.

“I can’t believe you found this. This is just brilliant,” he tells her, and she preens under the praise - a juvenile reflex, from growing up Without Good Role Models. She chastises herself, tells herself she doesn’t need the approval of anyone, not even the President’s chief of staff. But - former Treasury Secretary. Columbia grad. Smart, quick. Smaller than her usual fare, but strong - she can tell the difference, has seen enough men to know the way they carry themselves, and Hamilton is fit - possibly a bit malnourished, but they all are; they all forget to eat to prevent the occasional shutdown. She lets her eyes linger on him and when she looks up he’s looking at her, too, and their eyes lock - his dark, wide.

And, information aside, it’s even less about the information than her thing with Jefferson. The ball’s in her court, after all, as it always is; in sending that email, she’s given him a gift. It’s generous.

The least he can do is try to reciprocate.


	3. Chapter 3

It lasts about a month.

A month is how long it remains easy to pretend it isn’t happening, except when it is. He buries himself in her hair and forgets the scent; he runs his hands across her hips and forgets their form. It isn’t like Eliza; it isn’t a memory that impresses itself into him and never leaves. That’s reason enough to stop, he thinks, but it’s a rush, and he’s reckless. Always has been.

 _Reckless,_ he thinks as he deposits cash into the account number sent to him via text, from a number he doesn’t recognize.

 _Reckless,_ as she picks him up that same evening, big sunglasses blocking out the rays beating from low in the sky and her hair down, the top of the Beemer down.

 _Reckless,_ as they set out to have dinner in public, though before they were fucking he supposes it would have looked just as bad. But he’s not used to pulling up in the passenger seat of an expensive car a woman bought herself, for no reason other than her wanting it. She tells him as much on the drive through town, with a shrug - “I just thought it was cute,” and he shuts up. He knows a little of her childhood, a little of the ways it mirrors his. She doesn’t talk about it, because they’re not like that, but it’s on her Wikipedia page - _abusive stepfather,_ one paragraph down, _foster care from the age of twelve._

Alexander’s starving. He hasn’t eaten all day, he realizes - just pills and Coke, and caffeine and uppers are a lethal combination and he knows it and he _still_ fucking powered through. It’s like a game, sometimes, a test of his genius. If he can work for one more hour then he’ll reward himself with a sandwich - but when that hour turns into three he’s too tired to move, but not too tired to keep working, so he rewards himself with another dose. He orders a chicken type of thing, and looks around - the place isn’t very classy but it’s homey, little kids trying to escape booths while their parents tug back on their shirts to get them to sit still. He looks fondly at one little family and misses Eliza and Philip.

“I used to come here growing up,” Maria says. “It was a favorite. My mom would take us here.” Alex nods, hoping upon hope that she won’t continue. She doesn’t, except to reassure him that the food actually is good, it isn't just her nostalgia talking. She pulls out her phone - big Samsung, one of the ones with the huge screens and a zillion different functions, made for people who know technology more than he does. As she slides it across the table to him, he suddenly feels very old.

“Look at this,” she says, and he looks. “Since that blog has its own domain, I did some digging. There’s no name, but look at the location of the person it’s registered to.”

“Charleston.” Alexander blinks. “But that doesn’t make any sense. How would someone in SC have access to -“

“Think _bigger,_ babe.” And he blushes, even though she seems like the type of girl to call everyone that. “Trump has people from all over the south, don’t you think?”

“Ah,” he says, with finality. He pulls out his own phone and starts googling. She smiles fondly as she watches him, as if she is proud to have gotten him this far. It makes him burn, but he doesn’t show it. “Here we go,” he says, angling the phone so she can follow his finger as he scrolls, “A Mulligan, doesn’t seem to be involved with the campaign, per se, but he’s an associated name. One of Trump’s personal aides.” He purses his lips, studies the paragraph a little more. “Kid immigrant from Ireland. Shit like that makes my blood boil. How can anyone who knows what that’s like support this guy?”

Maria shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he does politically, and he’s got some weird personal beef with him. That website seems like the kind of shit a republican would do. Or -“ Their food comes, and Maria thanks the waitress, beaming, and tactfully folds her napkin in her lap. She leans over, continues in a low hiss, “we could just find him and ask him.”

He tucks into his own plate, his own napkin shoved in a triangle into his collar. “Wouldn’t that be easier said than done?”

She smiles knowingly. “Honey,” she says, stabbing a piece of particularly crisp lettuce with her fork - Alexander gulps - “you clearly forget _what I do.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments always appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

Mulligan turns out to be easier than expected to find, or he assumes he was, because Maria texts him the next morning with the news that he happens to be in town. She picks him up at one; Alex ducks in to tell Washington he’s taking a long lunch, and Washington waves him off, busy on a conference call with campaign staffers.

She’s brimming with excitement, and she speeds, swings the wheel wildly in her enthusiasm. “He’s meeting us at a Starbucks near my office.”

Alex starts. “Now!?”

Maria glares at him. “Sorry, does now not work for you? You got somewhere to be?” She regards him coldly. Alexander shrinks under her gaze.

“Just… that was fast.”

“I work fast, baby,” she says, turning back to the road. Her sunglasses are on, but she probably winked.

*

Mulligan turns out to be a tailor. “I guess that makes sense,” Alex remarks, stupidly. “A politician should have someone on the road with him to make sure he looks sharp.”

Mulligan looks him up and down, nodding thoughtfully. Alexander feels pretty self-conscious. Mulligan seems to be making mental adjustments to the state of his own rumpled clothing.

Maria rolls her eyes, sighs and hops up onto a stool as if to emphasize that she’s ready to get down to business. Mulligan takes a seat next to her, with Alex leaning against the counter on her other side. He looks over her shoulder as she shows the other man the blog. As soon as he sees the header, he lets out a soft noise of realization.

“So this is what you wanted to see me about so urgently,” he says. Alex takes the opportunity of his distraction to study the cut of his fine suit - Mulligan is built like he wishes he was: powerfully. Alex gulps, looking at his own sinewy forearms.

Maria presses on. “Are you doing this? It’s brilliant,” she hastens to add, because he’s looking a little spooked. Alexander supposes Maria is used to dealing with people being confronted with uncomfortable evidence - in the past month she’s broken what little guard he’s ever had and uprooted basically every bit of information about him, after all. When he thinks about it, it’s terrifying; she could ruin him, easily. But her body is soft and her smile is wide and nothing about her is naive. It’s refreshing. The thick summer air feels a little lighter with her around.

Mulligan pauses, studying her. It takes him a long while to decide she’s trustworthy. She doesn’t try to convince him with doe eyes or an innocent little smile. Her face is hard, serious. Ultimately he seems broken down by her persistence, and he sighs. “It’s not me,” he laments, and it sounds like just as much of a confession as it’d be if it were, so - and this is something he’s learned from Maria - it must be true.

Maria doesn’t say anything, just purses her lips and makes a gesture like, _So…?_ Mulligan sighs again. “My roommate. I live in Virginia when I’m not on the campaign trail. My housemate - he has the basement, I have the top floor - he’s a doctor, heavily opposed to the Republican Party’s thoughts on healthcare. And everything else. As am I, by the way, it’s just,” he looks at Alex and Maria in turn, eyes sharp. “it was a job. And it pays great.”

Alexander nods, absorbing the information. Maria chews the inside of her cheek. Mulligan pulls out his phone in the prolonged silence and taps on a contact, raises the phone to his ear.

“John,” he says. “Sorry to call you at work. I have some people who would like to meet you.”


	5. Chapter 5

John Laurens supposes he’s about what you’d expect from a man of his description. That is: Doctor. Oxford educated. Physically fit, if a bit lanky. But also: Divorcé. Law school dropout. Mental-health wise, not the picture of it.

John goes to NA religiously, like a good boy. He’s been clean for three years now, since Martha went back to London and took their daughter with her. They talk pretty regularly, and she doesn’t hang it over his head; he’s not bitter. He gets it. He knows what he put her through. There’s no hope of reconciliation, and he isn’t interested; he kind of hates himself for what he’d put Ellie through. Visits from the state, the nerves evident in Martha’s wide eyes as the social services worker surveyed the disarray of the house. Ellie had been little when things were really bad, and she probably doesn’t remember much more than waiting around after school for her no-show Dad, but John knows better than to paint the situation in a wash of generous illusion. He regrets everything, and some particularly hard nights he regrets getting Martha pregnant in the first place. It’s hard not to succumb to the idea that everyone would be better off if he hadn’t affected anybody else with his drama; it’s indulgent, a narrative of self-loathing, and it makes him wish he could drink without fear of spiraling.

Instead he scratches, picks at his skin. He smokes cigarettes, because he’s replaced one addiction with another, more socially acceptable one. He climbs from the patio to Hercules’ level, looks out through the few buildings between their townhouse and the Potomac. The humidity coming off the water today is off the charts, and it makes him cough more of his Marlboro than he inhales. It’s Sunday, and Old Town is bustling with miserable tourists in sweaty wife beaters, powerboats hanging out in the marina offering relief in the form of ten guided minutes out on the water. John stomps out his cigarette, kicks it off the balcony. He’s expecting company. He has to put a shirt without stains on.

*

They are all four of them in Hercules’ Mediterranean-style kitchen, late-afternoon sunlight reflecting off the jade green backsplash tiles. John is seated at the counter island with Maria Reynolds, an absolutely stunning young reporter from the New York Post who he’s never heard of because he doesn’t read such papers, but apparently she’s a pretty big deal. Mulligan is fussing about with something on the stove and Hamilton leans against the counter next to him, casual, far more comfortable in a stranger's home than John feels good about. It makes him wonder who else he’s imposed on.

He does not particularly care for Hamilton so far, though it’s not for the reasons he’d expected to dislike him - rather than your typical political brown-noser, he seems heedless, kind of manic. His energy is all over the place. It crosses his mind that perhaps he sees too much of himself in Hamilton for comfort.

Maria has her laptop out, her own 4G wireless connected via USB. “Thanks,” she’d said, smiling sideways, “but you don’t trust wifi in my line of work.” John wouldn’t know. He has his phone hooked up to the cheap unsecured connection he’d installed at work and plays with it between patients on weekdays, logs on to check Facebook at McDonald’s while he eats fries.

“So do you have it?” Alexander pipes up, like a child eager to get to the fun part. John regards him, appraising. His sleeves are pushed up, his blue tie undone and hung in a loop around his neck. He looks frazzled, John realizes. He looks - familiar. He shakes himself. “Yeah, I have it. Figure it’s safest with me.”

Hamilton leans forward a little, interested. Maria is the one who speaks, though. John thinks she is in charge. “Well?” she prompts, and John rolls his eyes. “You’ve seen all of it anyway,” he tells her, and she smirks at him.

“I’m a journalist, dear. I wanna see the hard proof.” So he goes, meanders downstairs and comes back with the little pocket-sized journal in hand. It’s one of those old-fashioned contact books, sold with a separate planner at office supply stores. It’s filled completely - twenty years or so of scribbles. Mulligan had brought it home and smiled at him like, You’ll enjoy this. He had, in the abstract. He’d hated reading most of it, to be sure - for one thing, he hates the filthy, misogynistic little notes the clown writes about his liaisons, rude descriptions of their bodily imperfections or insults toward their influential husbands, emasculating them for his own benefit. But it had been satisfying to know, to have some hard proof, that Trump was a piece of shit. His handwriting is awful - John’s a doctor, so he’s qualified to say. He hasn’t read from it in a while, but he remembers trying to make sense of the misspelled chicken-scratch.

“This is unbelievable,” Maria says, flipping through the book. She scrunches up her nose at a surely-awful passage about someone. “Man, this guy is gross.”

John huffs. “Yeah. I was real unsurprised, too.”

Hamilton comes around the island to read over Maria’s shoulder. “There are some names in here that I recognize. Like, I know some of these people, or their spouses, I run into them at least once a week. It’s just crazy he thought writing it all down was a good idea.”

Maria hums. “He seems like the type to want to preserve it on the public record, given the chance.” She grins. “Why don’t we let him?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> john and hercules live in alexandria, va.

It turns out Alexander smokes, too. He has Natives, which is weird; John assumes that on a Presidential Chief-Of-Staff’s salary, he can afford Spirits. He doesn’t say anything, just takes Alex’s offered light and drags heavy, surveys the dusk coming in over the river. Alex looks the same way he does, and there’s a moment of quiet, each man taking in the impending summer storm.

“Don’t you have, like, a wife and kid at home?” John asks. He knows the answer, of course; Alexander is married to Elizabeth, née Schuyler, of Senator father fame, now DC socialite extraordinaire, the picture of grace and composure. She seems an ill match for him, now that he’s met the man; it’s not a mean-spirited observation, but John couldn’t help but see the chemistry between him and Mrs. Reynolds displayed in his housemate’s kitchen earlier in the day. He supposes he’s never met Mrs. Hamilton, but he tends to sort of deify her in his mind and cannot so much as imagine her speaking loudly, let alone tempering Hamilton down; Hamilton had preened under _something_ when Maria had flashed her dark eyes at him.

Alexander smiles, a little guilty. “She’s at her parents’ for part of the summer. She takes Philip up there; there’s more to do for a kid his age. It’s good for them to get out of the city.”

John makes a noise of acknowledgement, holding his cigarette between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. Alexander holds his between his middle and fourth fingers, so his index pushes up against his nose while he smokes. It’s a weird tic, something John is sure Hamilton has never noticed.

“A doctor who smokes, huh?” Hamilton teases. He drops his butt in his can of Coca-Cola - John winces. That reminds him of his father. Hamilton just looks at him like he’s expecting an equally-witty answer.

John sighs. He’s exhausted, too tired for games, too tired to catch the pitch Hamilton’s lobbed. “It’s a - a replacement.” Hamilton’s eyes go wide, and he looks apologetic. “Sorry, man,” he says, holding up the palm he’s not holding the Coke with. “I hope I’m not imposing, by the way. Maria wanted to go to a club she knows here, and - well. That’s not exactly my scene.” He points his chin down, indicating himself. John chuckles.

“Yeah. We’re getting kind of - well. We’re not so young anymore,” he says, shooting Alexander a sympathetic look. The river glows as the moon unhides itself from behind a dark cloud.

“I never come down here ever,” Alexander says softly, gazing at the waterfront. “It’s so close and I guess I just forget the world is bigger than DC.”

“I like this little town,” John says. “I’ve got a good spot here. I needed some different air after my divorce and this turned out to work really well. I’m in private practice down here, which I would have never gotten in Charleston.”

Alexander turns to him, leans on the railing. He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re divorced?” he skewers, sounding genuinely surprised.

John reels - he doesn’t really meet new people, unless you count picking them up in a sports bar meeting them. He forgets the ritual of introducing himself. “Oh. Yeah.” He puts his arms on the railing, focusing on not looking at his company. “For a few years now. I had some - problems. She got tired of ‘em. Not even a long story.”

Alexander’s voice is gentle again. “Got kids?” The question seems to come from further away than he is, like it’s filtered through a few barriers. John feels a tear stinging his eye. No, no no, not now, not one of these nights _now,_ when he’s actually making a human connection with someone besides Hercules. It’s just that he never talks about these things, not even at meetings.

“One kid,” he croaks out, “a daughter.” His voice sounds kind of like a growl. It’s aggressive, uncalled for, and he wishes he could mask his drying throat in any other way. Hamilton might notice, or he might not - either way, he puts a hand on John’s forearm, folded on top of his other, and it makes John look him in the eye. “I’m guessing you don’t see her a lot,” he says.

“I see her more than I deserve to.” John turns and leans backward against the railing, now, faces the glass door. Inside Hercules is watching a movie, and the muffled sound of the TV floats out through the slider to the deck. “I fucked up bad, and like, lots. I hardly let myself identify as a father.”

Hamilton nods - and that’s really unique, isn’t it, how he nods instead of arguing, reassuring tactlessly. “I get you,” he says, and there’s real empathy there, John can tell. “My wife knows about like half of my issues and I don’t know why she stays.”

“Probably only with prolonged vacations in upstate New York.” The joke is dark but Hamilton laughs, and John laughs, too, mostly in relief. “You’re not imposing, by the way,” he says after it dies down. “Actually, it’s nice to have someone… here.” It’s like a lightbulb going off in his head, and it’s stupid and awful and he knows Hamilton is unsavory and probably unscrupulous and sweaty with heat but so is he and when he crowds close to him he doesn’t back away so John grabs the back of his neck and kisses him with all the force built up from not really kissing for years, teeth pressed together and tongues desperate. Alexander tastes like woody tobacco and tangy Coke syrup, and John breathes him in.

He pulls away when he realizes suddenly that if Hercules just so happened to look outside he’d see them, and he staggers backward, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “God,” he pushes out. “Sorry. I. Holy fuck. I am so sorry.”

Hamilton doesn’t look very sorry, though he looks a little dazed. “’S fine,” he says finally, licking his lips as if in deep thought, as if trying to decide if it really is. He gives John his space, sits on one of the wicker chaises. John stays standing. Alexander looked just as disheveled before the kiss; John feels significantly more so now, himself. He feels like he needs a cold shower, actually, and a five-mile run, and then another cold shower.

Alexander is the one to break the silence. He starts laughing again, outright giggles, a fit of hysterics. John watches in confusion as he lays back and writhes on the lounge chair. Finally he calms down a little, and John levels a critical eye at him, questioning. “Christ, I make bad decisions,” Hamilton says, and he reaches a hand out. John takes a couple of cautious steps toward him and takes it in his, and Hamilton squeezes his hand, comforting, friendly. “I’m sorry. We don’t need to do that if you don’t want to. But it was good. I’m not against it. Either way, you know.” He stares John in the eye, and John feels his face soften. “I have a lot going on right now. I’m sure you do, too. It’s whatever you’re up for, and not whatever you’re not. I won’t hold any of it against you.”

John considers it. It’s an offer, it’s an invitation, but it’s also permission to decline. It feels kind of good to do so, for once. For now. “I think tonight I just…” He trails off, sits next to Alexander on the chaise, his back to him. He sits up while Hamilton lies down, and Hamilton hums, running his hand across his back.

“Not in the mood?” Hamilton jokes, and John scoffs. 

“You could say that,” he says. They sit out on the deck until midnight, just talking.

John doesn’t feel like he needs a drink, or a dose, not once.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How dare he call her a slut, as if it’s his business who else she sleeps with? As if this arrangement is on his terms and his alone? As if he’s not getting more out of this than she is? Her other rendezvous are practically a gift to him at this point and he knows it. And besides, he’s half of this.

She’s on the hood of her own car, and she’s in a spa at a swanky hotel that work pays for, and eventually she’s in his house, in his bed, on his sofa. It’s boring, and kind of weird, with all the pictures of his kid around, but it’s easy. He’s as strong as she’d assumed; he takes her just as she likes to be taken, lets her kind of direct but is by no means passive. She even stays the night, once, but tells him she won’t make it a habit, and she doesn’t.

One benefit to his house is that she can touch him all she wants without worrying about his job. She’d bounce back if they were outed, but his situation would be more complicated. She does her best to respect that, even though his skin looks soft in sunlight and she longs to kiss him when they meet for lunch.

She’s on top of him on his couch, straddling him. She kisses him soft along his jaw as he valiantly ignores her in favor of his phone. He’s texting his coworker, a French expat, Lafayette; they’ve been conspiring, planning. She whines. “Just a minute, baby,” he tells her. She hates being dismissed.

“He’ll still be there when we’re done.” She takes the phone out of his hand and grinds down on him, and he groans. “Thomas wouldn’t keep me waiting,” she lilts. It’s meant to be a taunt, lighthearted, get him going - but he stops, tilts his head at her, eyes narrowed. 

“Are you fucking Thomas Jefferson, too?” he spits it at her, so disgusted. And that’s it, that’s what does it; the pure condescension dripping off his voice. That’s what always does it. She slaps him hard across the face, curling her fingers so her nails dig in. He reels, puts a hand in her hair hard as if to keep her at an arms’ length. He runs the back of his other hand across his cheek; the blood she’d drawn with her orange acrylics smears on the skin of both surfaces.

He pants. “You’re such a drama queen,” he tells her, chuckling in disbelief as he studies his red knuckles. She rears against his strength, reaching out to claw at him like a child being held back during a tantrum. Her impulse is to scream; she wheezes in frustration, afraid her voice will come out more shrill than she hopes. She wriggles, ducks from his grip as he adjusts it, gets up and backs herself against the wall. Her eyes are hot with anger, her chin lowered as a threat, and he doesn’t follow. How dare he call her a slut, as if it’s his business who else she sleeps with? As if this arrangement is on his terms and his alone? As if he’s not getting more out of this than she is? Her other rendezvous are practically a gift to him at this point and he knows it. And besides, he’s half of this. He’d entered into this. He’s fucking around outside his marriage just as much as she is; how dare he pull this moralistic crap on her. As if there’s suddenly a line drawn when you cross parties.

And Jefferson; yeah, he’s a Republican. But there’s something about his old-fashioned sensibilities, his almost lazy southern drawl, that endears her; he’s quiet and he tempers her, calms her down. She cares about him, and she doesn’t care about Hamilton, not the way he wants her to. He loves everybody, has love bursting out of him, like a puppy. It’s uninteresting, kind of exhausting.

But then his eyes soften. He shakes his head, looking sort of like a disappointed parent. Maria scoffs at the thought. He rises after a moment, crosses the room to her. “My phone, please,” he says quietly, holding his hand out. She realizes only then that it’s still in her hand. She hands it to him without looking him in the eye.

He glances at the home screen, pockets it. Sighs. “I’m sorry.” It’s a pathetic thing to hear from a man with a cheek still red from her palm. She scoffs again, folds her arms over her chest and looks away from him. She doesn’t forgive that kind of shit easily; being condescended, being dismissed, being policed. Nu-uh. Nah.

He reaches out, but seems to think better of touching her, looking disapprovingly at his own palm. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time it’s called behind him as he moves past her, and she chances a look at him as he heads for the kitchen. “I’m still unlearning shit, but - we can talk about that later, I’ll make us some dinner, any requests?”

“Dessert,” she says, and catches his wary smirk, returns it. “For real. I like your oatmeal cookies.”

“My oatmeal cookies are amazing,” he admits, smiling. She walks over, leans against the bar. Smiles at him all soft. “That comes from being a dad,” she tells him with an affect of confidence, like she knows. More than a fact she can say with any certainty, it feels like something he’d appreciate hearing. He knows she grew up without a dad, but he apparently chooses to forget as he washes his hands, because he smiles sort of wistfully. After a moment, he changes the subject, but not completely: “That something you ever thought about? Having kids?”

She bristles. It’s really not something she’s ever thought about. “I have too much… shit,” is what she settles for as explanation, gesturing vaguely at the door, at where her car is parked out front. She doesn’t know what the fuck that means. But he nods. “And besides, who would I have kids with?”

Hamilton gives her a _look._ “Your husband?”

Her husband. She’d forgotten about him. “Riiiiight.” She says, full of mirth, tilting her chin up to look down at him.

He demurs under her gaze. “Well, anyway,” Alexander says, busying himself with gathering ingredients from a cupboard, “you’d be a great mom."

That’s kind. Something about the way he says it disarms her; usually, when people bring it up, it’s done rudely, as if to remind her of a biological clock she doesn’t care about, more for the nagger’s benefit than her own. And it’s never said as confidently, as matter-of-factly, as Alexander says it. She resists making a joke to lighten the situation; she lets the heaviness of the statement hang in the air, lets Alexander level his solemn eyes at her and holds them. 

None of this is what she’s used to. A fight with James would mean a new bruise or three; a fight with Alex seems to mean homemade baked goods and heartfelt compliments. She doesn’t love him, no, but Maria isn’t really used to having friends - she’s used to taking care of herself, and being damn good at it - and, she realizes too suddenly, she thinks Alexander might be one. He provokes reactions in her that she’s unfamiliar with, feelings that she’s never let herself ride out; most of them are not romantic. Most of them are just fond.

She steals Alexander’s phone while his back is turned, copies a number into her own. Texts Lafayette herself, asks him to meet her at her work loft. She gives Alex a kiss on the cheek after eating two of his gooey cookies and hustles off, saying she’s got Deadlines, saying _Save the rest for little Philip._

He thinks of Philip, reveling in the sunshine in Albany, his soft copper baby curls shining, while he packages the rest of the batch in cling-wrap and freezes the batter. He thinks of Eliza, how before she’d gone upstate they’d been trying for another. He sits on the kitchen floor and cries, big ugly heaving sobs reverberating off the walls of his empty house.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail is rambling on on the other end of the phone. “Promise me, Reynolds. Don’t do anything with this. Donald Trump is bigger than any of us have the capacity to understand, better connected, fingers in more pies in more places than even I’m aware of. Don’t test him.”
> 
> Every bit of this is making Maria want to stand in the middle of Times Square and hand out stapled packets of copies made from the book with her signature on the bottom of every page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so short but just so you guys know i have an actual outline now, so i'm truly working on this.  
> expect more soon.

Maria has never had a week that seems to be quite as determined to destroy her as this.

Outwardly, she is the picture of poise, breezing through her two deadlines and firing off the work to her editor. She also mentions what she’s been working on on the side, in passing, while giving him a rundown of the climate in DC, the tension on the street. She has a good feel for that sort of thing; she’s a pro at reading people, at reading James and getting out of dodge when he’s in one of his moods, not that it’s often an issue since they live pretty much separately at this point. Usually, when he comes, she goes, and vice versa.

Exactly four minutes after she fires off the email, her phone buzzes. Adams always was a shrewd one, more adept than Maria at picking out details. She answers with a sigh. “Hi, Abby.”

Abigail immediately launches into what is part warning, part lecture. “Don’t you dare run anything on the Trump angle. I don’t want to know your source, but I suggest you let them know the risk associated with such an endeavor. This paper will not run something so dangerous.”

“Shit, Abby,” Maria says, more to herself than to the phone, holding it away from her ear and scowling at it. Abby reminds her of her mother sometimes, and nothing that reminds her of her mother is good.

“Don’t argue with me, Reynolds. Don’t run it anywhere. For your own safety, as your friend, I’m warning you to back off.”

Maria’s eyes narrow. She looks around her work loft, stares at a cheap abstract painting she’d found at a flea market. It looks violent all of a sudden. Abigail is rambling on on the other end of the phone. “Promise me, Reynolds. Don’t do anything with this. Donald Trump is bigger than any of us have the capacity to understand, better connected, fingers in more pies in more places than even I’m aware of. Don’t test him.”

Every bit of this is making Maria want to stand in the middle of Times Square and hand out stapled packets of copies made from the book with her signature on the bottom of every page.

“I promise,” she says. It’s the first time she’s ever intentionally lied to Abigail. She hangs up and crosses the room to the wall opposite her desk, the one with the painting. She takes the canvas down, holds it up and studies it close. The colors all clash.

She will just have to get resourceful. Creative.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating goes up here.
> 
> warnings for undernegotiated kink, spanking. don't do what maria does here, don't freak someone out like this and let them hit you when they don't know what they're doing.

Maria spends a few hours before that in a feedback loop of picking up her phone and throwing it angrily back in her desk drawer. At around 4, she relents, pulling up her conversation with Alex.

 _Can you make time tonight?_ He’ll know what kind of time she means.

The response is quick, _out in 30, meet at mine?_ Maria smirks. It’s always so easy.

*

She’s waiting for him, leaning against her car door, when he swings his bike into the driveway. He watches her as he takes off his helmet - his eyes linger on her hips. Skirt stretched tight across them. She smiles kindly, turns and leads him up the walk. Lets him open the door and invite her in. She still has a thing about that - she feels unwelcome unless she’s there by explicit invitation. He does humor her, as irrational as he thinks it is, because he knows he has less rational preoccupations and that she’d bring them up in an instant.

“I need you to do me a favor,” she says, when they’re both inside. She leans against the door, warmed from the sun outside. He’s already made himself comfortable on the couch; he beckons her over, and she goes down the two steps into the living room, hovers back from him. He nods at her, as if to prompt her to continue. _What kind of favor?_

She lifts her skirt without preamble to bunch at her waist. Alex gasps, a little intake of breath. She lies down over his lap. He puts his hands on her, the small of her back over the fabric of her skirt, the back of her upper thigh. He plays with the Y of her thong.

“Hit me,” she demands.

His body shifts, as if trying to put some more distance between them. “Why?” he says, sounding genuinely confused, and she feels a little bad about springing it on him like this, but she really needs it; she doesn’t have time to talk it out with him beforehand. She needs out of her head desperately.

“I lied to my editor,” she says simply, resting her cheek against the couch.

He’s all tense against her. She can feel him roll his shoulders back, breathe out; she can tell he’s dosed today because he’s dealing with this so well. It’s unfortunate. She’s asked him about finding a program; she doesn’t want him to languish in addiction. She’s even tried the real low way of getting through to him - _I want you when you’re **you** , _but that causes a panic attack, insistence that being high is who he is at this point and then a few hours of very emotionally questioning his own assertion, dealing with the implications. Everything she says is true, it’s not even meant to be manipulative - she does want to know who he was before the drugs, sometimes imagines it. Alex, a little more alert by default, with less frown lines, maybe a bit stronger physically. When she tells him this he scoffs, insists that she doesn’t want to know, and says she can ask Eliza if she doesn’t believe him.

And. Well. She’d rather not.

He’s running a hand over the crest of her ass as if deep in thought. The other is still under the waistband of her panties. She wiggles, trying to provoke some action from him. “Take those off,” she says, and she can feel the heat of his eyes on the back of her neck. “They’re not even doing anything if I’m slapping your ass,” he argues.

“I don’t deserve them,” she tells him, and she feels the heat of her own words burn in her cheeks. Finally.

He slips his other hand under the fabric and smoothes them down as she lifts her hips. She kicks them off the rest of the way from her calves and settles back against him, her blouse and skirt riding up. She’s pressed bare against his thighs, and she doesn’t want to think about the effect the exposure’s having on her. This isn’t about that, not yet; she needs retribution, punishment before she gets there. She keeps her thighs together.

Alexander is still hemming and hawing. She has no fucking time for this. She sighs loudly, annoyed, arching her back to present her ass and make it obvious that she’s waiting. “Impatient,” he tells her. If that’s news to him, Maria wonders where he’s been all the times they’ve fucked. Or even been in general proximity to one another.

The first smack lands perfect for a warm-up - his hand tapping against her sit spot. She gasps. He hits her again in quick succession, same spot, testing the waters, and when she arches again he starts in on her. She can tell he’s not really enjoying it - though he pants with exertion, he still has this pattern that beginners fall into, where he’ll spank her a few times and then hesitate, as if horrified to realize what they’re doing. She wishes she could express to him how much she needs this in words - because words are what convinces him - but this is one of the few times she allows herself the luxury of not having to find the string sentences together, and she wants to enjoy it.

He does seem to trust that she’ll tell him when it gets to be too much, because he doesn’t stop completely when she starts crying, sniveling and letting out choked sobs. She relishes it, the loss of control. She wishes he’d talk to her, tell her it would be okay, ask her if she’s learned her lesson, but she supposes she can’t expect him to press every button on their first run through. His hands are light, really going for sting, and that’s good enough.

She shifts, spreading her legs. Straddling one of his, rubbing herself against him. It opens her up, makes it impossible for her to anticipate anything. Moaning quietly, encouraging him to give her more. He starts focusing on certain spots, hitting each one too many times before moving onto the next. She’s incredibly grateful for it, and she tells him to stop mid-sob. He does, pulls his hands away completely, gives her space to clamber off his lap.

He can’t quite get it up for her, though he tries - _I don’t like hurting you,_ he says. She understands, and in the end it doesn’t matter anyway, because she wraps her thighs tight around his head and he makes her come about four times before she’s finally shaken so thoroughly loose that she can’t imagine continuing. He comes up from between her legs with his lips and chin slick with her, panting open-mouthed, and she smiles kind of sadly down at him, tells him thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to note that this isn't a one-off thing. maria has reasons for provoking this scene - they will be explored later. what i've written in this chapter is actually so squicky to me at this point in my life that i'd be remiss not to expand on her reasons for it


	10. Chapter 10

Maria Reynolds is bossy.

John learns this with the very first text she sends him. How she got his number, he has no idea, but it’s not like he’s that surprised. She’s a journalist, after all. He’s pretty sure she went to Princeton. And she’d found his website.

The website she’s telling him five times a day to take down. All her messages are adamant, imploring. Not long; concise, to-the-point. _Take it down,_ she texts. _I want to blow the lid of this thing, you have to take it down._

 _That shit was hard work,_ he sends back.

_This is for your own protection._

He stares at that one for a little while, then another comes in. _Credit where credit is due when it’s safe._

He considers it. His phone rings. Hercules. He sighs, exhausted.

“Hey, man.”

“Yo. Listen, you off work?”

“About to be.”

“Dinner? Trump doesn’t need me. No rich-people galas or fundraising benefits tonight.” He hears Hercules chuckle. “And I wanted to catch up. It seems like - since this Reynolds thing - we’ve lost touch, which is kinda bumming me out since we live together.”

“We don’t _live together,_ we cohabitate. Somewhat.” John doesn’t really know the difference, but it sounds more professional, less twentysomething. They technically have separate rentals, so it makes sense that they wouldn’t see each other every day. But he has to admit he misses his friend. “A La Lucia?”

Hercules loves Italian food. “Fuck yeah,” he says, and John thinks he can hear his stomach growling through the phone. “See you in twenty.”

*

John swings his dark red Jetta into the strip mall parking lot just as dusk is setting. The air is crazy thick, humidity coming in off the river practically in visible waves. The walk into the restaurant is enough to stifle his breath, so the freezing air conditioning inside is welcome.

He slides into a colorful booth across from Hercules, who beams at him and beckons a waitress over, ordering them a plate of calamari as an appetizer and two tropical-sounding drinks. John doesn’t question, but he does eye Hercules suspiciously when the round comes and they are bright green, salt on the rim and smelling of rum. “It’s a Thursday,” he says.

Hercules shrugs amicably. “I know what’s good for you, Laurens. You’re lookin’ stressed.” He gestures at John with his tall glass in hand, ice sloshing. “What’s got you pulling your hair out? Maria chick shaking you down?”

John shakes his head, amused by the question, stares into his drink as he stirs it with the straw. Alcohol through a straw. It certainly is quite a Thursday. He supposes Maria is pretty much shaking him down. And she’s very persuasive. He’s happy to let Hercules think he’s simply stressed about the sudden pressure.

But the truth is he can’t stop thinking about Hamilton, about his lips and tongue and body. His manner, brash, unsophisticated, hungry. But kind, all empathy in his soft eyes, his manic energy. He certainly hadn’t endeared himself to John right away, but he thinks of their exchange on the balcony, the closeness he had felt after they’d decided not to pursue their connection physically that night. They’d talked about so much, things John never talks about, and it had felt good to be wanted and to say no. To make a decision. He can’t stop replaying the feeling of Alexander’s hand trailing across his back over his shirt, a small warm weight he’d found comforting as Alex had listened to him, just let him talk and listened.

John would really like to confront these residual feelings he’s had time to discover in the week since, but he doesn’t know how he would broach the subject. Texting a married man with a proposition seems risky, and he isn’t sure what he wants or what Hamilton expects. He had seemed to expect nothing, which is what scares John most. He’s slept with reckless idiots and they all had an agenda - Alexander had been all absentminded touches and quiet acknowledgement. And in the end they hadn’t done anything. Hamilton couldn’t be under the illusion that John lacked interest, but John had denied him, so there’s no agreement in place, no boundaries. John takes a long, long sip of his Mai Tai, closes his eyes and focuses on the burn of the alcohol going down his throat.

They’re both stirring their drinks when the plate of fried squid comes. The waitress also sets down a basket of bread and takes their entree order, and then they are both on the plate of calamari like moths to a flame. John feels like he hasn’t eaten in a week. He suddenly can’t wait for this lasagne.

“You given any thought to taking the blog down?” Mulligan asks him, smiling through a mouthful of garlic bread. John can tell there’s an edge to it, a sharp little apprehension; Hercules is hoping he’ll get rid of it all. John doesn’t like thinking about it. Maria has been pushing, texting him every day urging him to take it down, saying she won’t publish her report until he does. But she’s bossy and John does not do well being bossed around. He thinks he’ll be fine; but he realizes now that it’s not about him. He looks at the man across from him, his best friend since college, considers for the first time this situation’s implications to him. Reynolds has taken up so much of his mental energy that he’d forgotten his source for the information she wants to take out of his hands in the first place. He laughs, suddenly, and Hercules eyes him, confused.

John calms down, pulls the straw out of his drink, licks it to get the excess off and sets it aside. Takes two big swigs straight from the glass. He shakes his head at his own blindness. “Sorry, man. I’m acting weird. Sorry. Of course I’m taking it down. I don’t even remember why we started it.”

Mulligan grins at him. “Because you’re a petty and spiteful person who takes up arms over totally impersonal vendettas.”

John furrows his brow. The read is not inaccurate, but - “It _is_ personal,” he insists. “Especially now that he’s parading his disgusting shit around. He always deserved to be knocked down a few pegs.”

“I always forget your dad knows him,” Mulligan says. “The point still stands. Donald’s not the only one you’ve taken to task.” He smirks, can’t seem to resist teasing. “Did you befriend me because I worked for him?”

John shoots him a glare, but smiles after. “Happy accident,” he says. “Very handy, though.”

Their food comes and they eat, mostly in a happy quiet. There’s so much cheese, and John feels the food coma coming on halfway through the meal. He’s determined to finish the entire plate. Lucky that he won’t be able to think about sex for the next three days with this brick of noodle and meat sitting in his stomach, since the past few nights he’s drifted off to guilty fantasies of Alexander Hamilton’s slight waist, that curtain of dark hair falling against his collarbone, his bright eyes and easy smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rich people know each other, amirite


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beginning of the end.

**_TRUMP’S HIT LIST REVEALED_ **   
_Each encounter graded and commentated; a Republican’s fine feast_

Shit starts hitting the fan on Monday morning.

**_DONALD TRUMP HITS NEW LOWS ON WOMEN’S ISSUES IN NEWLY-REVEALED LITTLE BLACK BOOK_ **   
_The depths of misogyny we thought we knew? Those were just trial runs._

As if Mondays weren’t bad enough.

**_REPUBLICAN FRONTRUNNER’S AFFAIRS OUTED_ **

**_DONALD’S DIARY_ **

**_ILLICIT LIAISONS DETAILED IN SHOCKING PRIVATE TRUMP PAPERS_ **

Exposé after exposé are hot off the presses, and walking into work Maria feels more suffocated by the bustle of the city than she usually does. Every errant eye in a knowing threat, every glance something dangerous.

She tries to breathe, tries to tell herself she’ll be fine.

She knows Abigail Adams has other ideas.

Maria waits for the phone call, paces her loft a little, heels click-click-click on the floor, but she finally sits, tapping her nails on the glass desktop. Texts from Alexander flood in, wanting to know where she is, wanting to come help her through it. He’s sweet. She doesn’t respond.

Finally Abby calls. Maria has no time to greet her, which is just as well, considering she’s not sure she can talk through the lump in her throat anyway. “Reynolds,” Adams growls, and Maria feels immediately like she’s being admonished by a mother she never had.

Maria doesn’t answer; Adams spares her the lecture, though Maria knows she’s been neck-deep all morning trying to sort through the mess, all the while hemming and hawing about what she has to do now.

Abigail’s voice is crackling, and Maria gets perfect service here so it’s not the line. “Reporting exclusive information for another outlet voids your contract,” she says as evenly as is probably possible.

“Yes,” Maria supplies.

“Sorry, Maria,” Abigail says. “Call me if you need anything. Anytime. Anything at all.”

The line goes dead. Maria slumps in her seat.

*

She wakes up half an hour later to being shaken gently. She blinks, trying to focus her eyes. Alexander is kneeling above her, concern lacing his fingers. She lets herself relax into his touch for a split second before she gets to her feet.

“Shit! Alex, you can’t be here!” She starts scrambling around for her things, packing them all away, figuring she may as well clear the loft out so Abigail doesn’t have to. Alexander helpfully holds out a small stack of her papers from the file cabinet, and she snatches them away in a whirlwind. “You need to _leave,”_ she hisses. “You cannot be here. What are you thinking?”

“I couldn’t find you, and I needed to…” He doesn’t really seem to know _what_ he needed, so he shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets like he does when he’s jonesing. “I am so sorry,” he says, so quietly that she isn’t sure she was supposed to hear. She comes around to him, and he looks pointedly down at the floor.

“Hey,” she says, tapping his chin up so he’ll meet her eye. “It’s whatever. It’s not the first job I’ve lost and it certainly won’t be the last.”

Alex looks at her as if he’s trying to read instructions off the inside of her face. His eyes bore into her, a downward curl to his lip like he’s in the midst of a hard decision. She strokes his cheek. “You didn’t have to do this for me,” he whispers, and she scoffs.

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much the _Times_ offered me for that exclusive? This wasn’t for you, or for Washington.” She taps his cheek. “Face it, Alexander: every choice I do is for me.”

He opens and closes his mouth, processes it. Then he kisses her, hard, final, and leaves, his jacket over his shoulder.

Maria kicks off her heels in the car, walks barefoot into the house. She takes a bath, then a shower to rinse, using up all the hot water in the house. She pours herself a glass of pinot and takes the bottle with her to bed, sits in the center of the fluffy comforter with her pajama shorts on and paints her toenails while blasting Diana Ross. James pokes his head in twice to give her disapproving looks and she ignores him.

She flops back on the bed and thinks about Alexander as she falls asleep, not about him touching her but about the sadness, the hunger in his eyes. Accepting that he deserves better is simply bitter, not particularly painful. She has swallowed worse. He won’t want it, but he has to get better; his beautiful little family, they deserve that.

She’s a little disappointed when her phone chimes and she can’t bring herself to get up to get it, but she feels it’s ultimately for the best.


End file.
